


Whoopsie

by Misha Berry (MishaDerps)



Series: Maladies & Miscommunication [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Damian (reluctantly) to the rescue, Gen, Illnesses, Lack of Communication, Near Death Experiences, Pneumonia, Sickfic, septicemia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 15:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12707868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MishaDerps/pseuds/Misha%20Berry
Summary: Tim meant to tell everyone, honestly he did, but with everything happening so rapid-fire—Ra’s Al Ghul’s campaign to take over WE, proving that Bruce wasn’t dead and bringing him back from the fringes of time or wherever he was stuck, WE and the Neon Knights, the Unternet thing, dealing with the usual fare of Gotham’s streets, reconnecting with Conner and the other Titans—it just sort of slipped Tim’s mind to tell anyone about what had happened to him. It wasn't as though any of them thought to ask either, so it had just sort of slipped through the cracks of ‘things that had happened to Tim on his little sojourn through Europe’.A lapse in communication lands Tim in some big trouble. Maybe next time he'll think twice before taking a dip in Gotham River on a cold night.





	1. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this started out as a little thing with Swan and quickly took on a life of its own. This is actually around 26 pages long, but I'm splitting it into two for convenience's sake. The title comes from a joke between me and Swan.

Tim meant to tell everyone, honestly he did, but with everything happening so rapid-fire—Ra’s Al Ghul’s campaign to take over WE, proving that Bruce wasn’t dead and bringing him back from the fringes of time or wherever he was stuck, WE and the Neon Knights, the Unternet thing, dealing with the usual fare of Gotham’s streets, reconnecting with Conner and the other Titans—it just sort of slipped Tim’s mind to tell anyone about what had happened to him. It wasn't as though any of them thought to  _ ask _ either, so it had just sort of slipped through the cracks of ‘things that had happened to Tim on his little sojourn through Europe’.

Currently, Red Robin was fighting an amatuer Gotham crazy. ‘Amatuer’ because while he was certainly crazy and inspired by the more A-List crazies (he was calling himself ‘The Hook’ because he used a meat hook, which . . . ugh,  _ lame _ ), but he was certainly not as smart or as experienced as the Rogues Gallery. Red Robin had tracked him down in a matter of a few days, though unfortunately enough that was time for The Hook to rip several women to shreds and dump their bodies in the river.

Red Robin had to hand it to The Hook (real name; Robert Guthrie, white male, 32, a butcher by trade, history of domestic violence and animal abuse), he was actually pretty good at swinging the nasty, filthy-looking meat hook around as a weapon. Red Robin had to actually pay attention to where it was at while he tried to incapacitate the 6”1’, 200lb behemoth that was trying his best to turn Red Robin into his next victim.

“Hold still little bird,” Guthrie growled, “So I can slice you up nice and pretty.”

“Oh my God,  _ please _ get better material,” Red Robin begged as he dodged another swing, “You can’t even imagine how many times I’ve heard that  _ exact _ line.”

“Little shit,” Guthrie snarled, “I’m going to string you up like a side of beef.”

“Better,” Red Robin said, grinning a little, “I mean, not the best I’ve ever heard, but you’re getting closer.”

“Just shut up!” Guthrie howled, charging forward like a bull.

Red Robin scrambled backwards, dodging just in time, but metal grate floors of the little shack Guthrie had set up to do his gruesome business in weren’t properly bolted down, and his heel caught the edge of one panel, sending him sprawling. Red Robin landed hard on his ass, his arm going back to catch himself instinctively, but his hand caught some chains that were lying around awkwardly and caused his wrist to buckle. Distracted by the pain for a half second, Red Robin didn’t have enough time to avoid the heavy boot that collided with his skull. Dazed, Red Robin fell back, trying to get his wits about him before anything else could be done to his person. He wasn’t so lucky in his endeavors.

Guthrie grabbed him by his ankles and dragged him toward the centre of the floor (where there was a drain under the grates that went straight down into the river that they were basically on top of), and put a strong hand on his chest to hold him down while he raised the filthy meat hook—unwashed of the other murder victims blood, which was probably an aesthetic choice because Guthrie was an  _ idiot _ —and prepared to swing it down on Red Robin’s throat.

Red Robin acted quickly, bucking up and getting one leg wrapped around the arm holding him down. He slammed the heel of his boot into Guthrie’s neck in a quick jab, dislodging the hand holding him down at the same time. Guthrie coughed and choked, but still swung the hook down with considerable force. He missed his target of Red Robin’s throat, and instead came down on his shoulder; it wasn't enough to pierce through the body armor, but it was sure going to leave a hell of a bruise. Red Robin grunted and got his other leg up to shove Guthrie in the chest, finally succeeding in pushing him off. Red Robin rolled away and sprang up, rolling his shoulder a little to test it; bruised certainly, but nothing felt broken or cracked, so he’d be fine.

Guthrie growled and picked up his hook again, eyes filled with fury. He abandoned banter in favour of trying in earnest to kill Red Robin. Red Robin thought of drawing him outside  onto the docks, where he’d have more room to maneuver, but the door was locked and Guthrie had the key, and the only other way out was the window that faced the river—which Red Robin had slipped through earlier to corner Guthrie. The shack was old and decrepit, the wood rotting in places and nearly falling apart. The grating and the drain were the only new things about the shack other than the boards covering all the windows but the one facing the river—there were no light fixtures, so Guthrie had to use the natural light to see what he was doing.

Red Robin dodged around for a few more minutes, trying to get Guthrie into the right position. When Guthrie was finally in the right place—standing directly in front of the window, two feet forward from the wall—Red Robin leaped up and grabbed a hold of the ceiling beam and swung into Guthrie, planting his boots solidly into his chest and propelling him backward through the window. He fell through it with a shower of shattered glass and splintered wood. As he was falling backwards however, he brought his hook up and caught hold of Red Robin’s leg, the mean point getting lucky and snagging between the armor, digging in and yanking Red Robin along with Guthrie. The ceiling beam snapped under the combined weight of them and Red Robin went tumbling into the river after Guthrie.

The river was bitterly cold when Red Robin hit the water. He’d had only a moment to take a breath before he’d plunged into the murky, polluted water, and he swam desperately upwards. The hook was still caught in his leg, but Guthrie had let go. Red Robin broke the surface and gasped, looking around for Guthrie and hoping the fall into the water hadn’t killed him by accident. He spotted the man floating some distance away and swam towards him. Guthrie was unconscious, but alive, and Red Robin now had the honor of swimming them both to shore.

By the time Red Robin had pulled Guthrie out of the water and got the police on the scene, it was well passed the coldest part of the night, which was rather frigid, considering it was the middle of October. Red Robin was shivering badly even as he climbed onto his motorcycle, deciding to call it a night rather than try to see if there were any other petty criminals out lurking in the streets.

Red Robin turned on the comm in his cowl, “This is Red Robin,” he said, trying to keep his teeth from chattering, “I’m turning in for the night.”

“ _ Already? _ ” Nightwing’s voice called over the comm, “ _ It’s a little early for you, isn’t it? You’re usually the last to call it a night. _ ”

“Yeah well, I fell in the river dealing with some Jack the Ripper wannabe,” Red Robin said, “I’m cold and wet and I want to sleep for a million years. Can one of you guys pick up the rest of my patrol?”

“ _ If you turn tail after taking a little dip, Red Robin, you're more incompetent than I thought you to be at first, _ ” Robin said in that annoyingly superior tone of his, “ _ Perhaps you ought to hang up your cape for good this time. _ ”

“ _ Robin, enough, _ ” Batman’s gruff rumble of a voice carried over the comm, “ _ We’ll take care of your patrol Red Robin. Go home and get some sleep. _ ”

“ _ Take a shower before you go to bed though _ ,” Nightwing said, “ _ Wash off the river gunk. You don't want to get sick. _ ”

“Thanks for jinxing it, Nightwing,” Red Robin said, tempted to roll his eyes, “Red Robin out. Night guys.” He closed the comm and started his bike, eager for once to take the rest of the night off.

Upon returning to the Nest, Tim quickly stripped out of his uniform and did as Dick suggested; take a long, hot shower. The slick of the Gotham river clung to him valiantly, but eventually all traces of it were washed away. Tim stayed under the spray for a little longer after that, not wanting to brave the cold air. Eventually he had to get out of the shower, as he was starting to fall asleep and the last time he’d fallen asleep in the shower he’d toppled out of it and given himself a concussion. It was nothing short of a miracle that Tim managed to dress himself in pyjamas and make his way to bed, he was so exhausted. He’d been running himself ragged for so many weeks, it felt like he hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since before Bruce got shot back in time.

When he woke up the next morning however, he still felt like he hadn’t slept in weeks, “Okay, I call bullshit,” Tim grumbled to himself, contemplating staying in bed and sleeping through the day to see if it helped. Remembering that Tam had threatened to castrate him if he didn’t show up to work today, Tim groaned and sluggishly dragged himself out of bed.

He almost changed his mind when standing made him extremely dizzy. Tim swayed on his feet for a moment and took a deep breath to try and steady himself. His chest suddenly flared in pain and he started coughing; deep, wet coughs that wracked his body and wrenched his chest painfully.

Eventually, Tim got himself under control. He wobbled to the bathroom to start his morning routine and glanced at himself in the mirror. For two seconds, he thought there was a zombie in his bathroom (why that didn’t phase him was probably a contemplation for another time), before he realized it was just his reflection. He was paler than he usually was, to the point of being sickly, and it only made the bruises under his eyes stand out more, like he’d been sucker punched—which he  _ had _ , just not in the face . . . recently. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, despite the fact that Tim felt rather chilly.

“Fuck me,” Tim groaned, leaning over his sink to press his forehead to the mirror. No amount of primping was going to make him not look like shit today, so he decided not to waste the effort and only brushed his teeth and combed his hair. Passing through his bedroom on his way to the kitchen, he snagged his phone from the nightstand and sent a text to Dick.

_ you jinxing son of a bitch _ , he texted, having to retype it a few times because he couldn't get his fingers to work. Coffee, he needed coffee and some Advil.

As he was getting the coffee pot going, Dick texted back,  _ sick?? _

_ Yes _ , Tim sent back, then, _ i blame you. _

_ Aw, sorry to hear that lil bro _ , Dick texted, along with a string of frowny and sad face emojis,  _ u gonna live or does big bro need to come look after u?? _

Tim faltered a little at that. Setting his phone down, Tim stalled answering by pouring himself a mug of coffee and putting in the right amount of cream and sugar. Things with Dick were still a little strained after everything that happened. Choosing Damian as his Robin and not believing Tim when he said that Bruce was alive—and the fact that they hadn’t really had time to sit and talk about these things—meant that things felt a little distant between them. Tim knew he hadn’t helped much, he hadn’t exactly reached out to Dick to mend things either, but the hurt was still too fresh. Dick had all but cast Tim out at a time when he needed his big brother the most. So while it was tempting to type  _ yes, come look after me, cuddle me and take care of me until I feel better _ , Tim couldn’t make his fingers move that way.

_ No, I’m fine _ , he sent instead, and it felt clipped and passive-aggressive even to Tim. Dick must have sensed it as well, as he only sent back an  _ okay _ before going quiet.

Tim sighed and sipped his coffee. He thought about getting something to eat before he had to leave, but even just the coffee was making his stomach twitch threateningly, so he decided to skip breakfast. With a sigh, Tim grabbed his crutches and made his way down to the garage.

Driving through Gotham in the late morning was never a pleasant experience, but today it was seven times worse. Tim had to sit in his car for several minutes after parking, trying to get the pounding in his head to settle. He tried to breath deeply, but it hurt his chest too much and sent him into more coughing fits, this time accompanied by a few specks of phlegm. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Tim wiped his hand with a tissue and got out of his car. He had work to do, and he wouldn’t let a little cold get the best of him.

Tim was used to people staring at him when he walked (hobbled on his crutches) through WE. He was the adopted son of the CEO and he ran a good chunk of the company now, all at the tender age of eighteen. Tim had long since stopped noticing the glares of jealousy, the looks of admiration, and the guarded leers of suspicion. People stepped out of his way in the halls in a mixture of pity (for the crutches) and respect (for the other stuff).

Today, however, the stares ran more along the lines of shock and horror, and the avoidance seemed to be out of revulsion. Tim paid it no mind, or rather he couldn't summon the energy to be annoyed, his head hurt too much and it took too much concentration to put one foot in front of the other. He was glad he could lean on the crutches so much, he might have fallen over otherwise.

“Tim!” Tam’s voice pierced his head like a metal spike, making Tim wince, “You’re late again. I keep telling you not to be late.”

“Sorry,” Tim mumbled, shuffling into his office, “What’s on the schedule today?”

Tam didn't answer him, instead inspecting him more closely, “You look like hell. Rough night?”

“Something like that,” Tim said, letting out a long sigh. Another coughing fit triggered and Tim spent a good minute trying to forcibly remove his lungs from his chest cavity.

“That sounds nasty Tim,” Tam said, “Maybe you should go home and get some rest?”

“I’m fine,” Tim said, taking a tissue and wiping his hand of phlegm again, “We’re really busy, I can’t take time off right now.”

“Right,” Tam said after a pause, eyeing him critically.

Tim managed a smile at her, “I’m fine Tam, really. I’ll take some cough medicine and power through it. It’s just a cold, I’ve had worse than this.”

“Right,” Tam repeated, though she didn't look mollified, “Well, we better get started.”

Tim tried to keep up with Tam, but his condition just seemed to get worse and worse throughout the day. He found some cough syrup—probably fetched by one of the interns that was probably older than he was by a year or two—and downed probably more than he needed to, but nothing seemed to be helping. Tam suggested several times that he go home and rest, but Tim knew they were at a critical stage in several projects and he couldn't slack off now, no matter how much he wanted to just crawl under his desk and sleep for a week.

“Okay, that’s it,” Tam said around 4 in the afternoon after Tim had finished another hacking coughing fit (into a tissue this time to catch whatever phlegm he coughed up), “I’m getting your dad so he can  _ make _ you go home.”

“Tam wait,” Tim tried to protest, but she was already stalking away. Tim groaned and flopped back in his chair, trying to muster up the strength to go after her. His body just wouldn't cooperate though, and his chair was exceptionally comfy. Maybe he could take a quick nap? Just a short one before he got back to work.

* * *

 

Bruce glanced up as the door to his office was opened without the person on the other side bothering to knock. He was about to be annoyed—his employees rarely disturbed him without trying to show at least some cursory politeness—when he saw that it was Tam Fox. He and Lucius were talking about some new projects, so Bruce assumed she was there to talk to her father.

“Hi sweetie,” Lucius said, smiling at his daughter, “I’ll be just a moment okay?”

Tam didn't return the smile, “I’m actually here to talk to Mr. Wayne,” she said.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, “What can I help you with, Miss Fox?”

Tam tapped her foot, “You can haul your son’s butt out of here and make him get some sleep.”

Bruce resisted the urge to sigh, but only barely, “Tim come to work without sleeping again?” he asked.

“He’s sick,” Tam said, her face changing to an expression of concern, “Like really sick. I saw him almost die once and he didn’t look this bad.”

The urge to sigh was too much and Bruce gave in, “I’ll talk to him,” he said. He handed over the file he’d been reading to Lucius and stalked to Tim’s office, ready to give the boy a piece of his mind.

Bruce stopped up short when he finally made it to Tim’s office. The boy was slumped backwards in his chair, his harsh, laboured breathing the only thing letting people know that it wasn't a dead body in the chair. He was pale and sweaty and his chest rattled with every shallow breath. Bruce’s chest hurt just  _ looking _ at him. He quietly stepped inside his office and shut the door, texting Alfred to come by WE to pick the boy up. Not a chance he was going to send Tim home alone, not with how sick he looked.

Text sent, Bruce cautiously approached the desk and the sleeping boy behind it. He debated on whether to wake Tim or let him sleep until Alfred arrived to take him back to the Manor, but Tim stirred anyway. He tensed slightly even before he opened his eyes, alerted to Bruce’s presence and thinking it was danger. He relaxed when he saw it was only Bruce, but that didn't stop Bruce’s heart from breaking—Tim had been through so much, it seemed like he expected danger from around every corner now.

“Bruce?” Tim croaked, literally croaked because his throat sounded like it had been scrubbed with steel wool, “What happened?” He sat up a little in his chair, swiping at his eyes to clear them.

“Alfred is coming to take you home,” Bruce said, leaning against the desk, “You’re sick.”

Tim groaned, “Yeah,” he said, defeated, then gave a sardonic smile, “Fucking Dick jinxed it.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched, “You did fall in the Gotham river on a cold October night,” he pointed out, “You’ve been working too hard.”

“Lots to do,” Tim rebutted, “I can’t take a break when there’s so much work to do.”

_ You could let us take care of some of it _ , Bruce wanted to say. Tim had always been the most self-sacrificing of all his children, always willing to lay himself out for the benefit of others. It was admirable, but also likely to get Tim in over his head if someone didn't help him out of the pit he dug trying to save everyone but himself. Bruce felt a wave of guilt wash over him, knowing he’d been preoccupied since returning from the hurtling through time with becoming Batman again and trying to deal with Damian and a million other things. Tim had always been self-sufficient, but lately he had trouble throwing in the towel when it got to be too much.

“Take a few days off,” Bruce suggested, “Catch up on sleep, we’ll take care of things,” he promised.

Tim managed a wry smile, but there was something in his eyes that Bruce didn’t like, “I’ll try,” he said neutrally. He started coughing, his whole body convulsing with the force of them and Bruce reached out a hand before he could think better of it and rubbed Tim’s back.

“Ugh, this sucks,” Tim said, when he finally managed to calm down, his chest heaving shallowly, “Everything hurts and I can barely breathe without coughing. Getting stabbed was a walk in the park compared to this.”

“When were you stabbed?” Bruce asked, trying to recall any severe injuries Tim had recently.

Tim opened his mouth to tell Bruce, but a knock at the office door interrupted whatever he was about to say. Alfred poked his head into the office, “I was informed of a sick child that needed attending to?” he said.

“M’ not a child,” Tim protested, struggling out of his chair and picking up his crutches.

If Alfred was aghast at how sick Tim was, he hid it well, “My apologies. Children don’t have the ability to judge when it’s appropriate to take time off to recover from an illness, something which you  _ clearly _ have in spades,” he said dryly, though he laid a gentle hand on Tim’s forehead to see if he had a fever, which he did.

“Mm, point taken,” Tim mumbled, leaning into Alfred’s cool hand. Bruce watched him sway on his feet where he stood.

Alfred sighed deeply, “Come along my dear boy. Let’s get you home and into bed. Have you eaten?” he asked as he led Tim out the door. Bruce got up to follow them.

Tim shook his head, though it made him wince, “No, stomach doesn’t feel right,” he said.

“I’ll have some soup and crackers made for you when we get home,” Alfred said, “You fell in the river last night?”

“Yes, he did,” Bruce answered for Tim, though the boy didn’t pay him any mind.

“And I suppose you stood out in the cold sopping wet for at least an hour before you hopped on that motorcycle to go home,” Alfred said to Tim, who didn't look like he was paying attention anymore, “You’ve probably come down with some fast acting flu. You’ll be lucky if you don’t get pneumonia.”

“Jinx it,” Tim muttered, but otherwise didn’t protest being led to the elevator and down to the garage. Bruce followed silently beside them, keeping a close eye on Tim. The boy swayed on his feet and looked close to passing out with every step. Bruce wondered if it would be better to just carry Tim down to the car instead of waiting on knife’s edge for him to pass out standing up and fall on his face.

They reached the garage finally and made it to the car. Tim started walking towards his own car before Bruce steered him towards Alfred’s car, “Alfred is taking you back to the Manor,” he said slowly, “I’ll drive your car back.”

Tim blinked a few times, as though processing what Bruce was saying. Eventually, he dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them over to Bruce, then followed Alfred to the car he’d driven in. Bruce and Alfred got him settled into the back seat, where he promptly slumped over and passed out.

“Poor thing,” Alfred said, “I’m surprised this has come on so quickly though, he was never a sickly child.”

“Could be stress,” Bruce said, “He’s been working too hard. Hopefully a few days will set him straight.”

“I should only hope so,” Alfred said, walking around to the driver’s side, “I assume you’ll drive Master Timothy’s car back to the Manor at the end of the day?”

Bruce nodded, “I’ll text you to let you know when I’ll be home,” he said.

They exchanged goodbyes and Bruce remained in the garage until the car turned around the corner. He took a deep breath and tried to keep in mind that Tim had never been one to be sick for very long. It was only stress and Tim not taking care of himself that had made the illness come on so suddenly. Bruce tried to be comforted, but he couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of foreboding settle in his stomach.

* * *

 

Someone was jerking Tim’s shoulder, trying to rouse him, but Tim groaned and resisted. Sleep was tantalizingly close and Tim wanted to sink into it for a million years. As if the universe was trying to spite him, his breath caught in his chest and sent him into another heaving coughing fit, bringing him into full consciousness. The hand that had been on his shoulder trying to wake him migrated to his back to rub soothing circles while he coughed.

Tim groaned when his coughing finally subsided, “Fuck this.”

“Language, Master Timothy,” Alfred chastised, but the concern in his voice took any bite out of the reprimand, “Let’s get you inside out of the chill.”

Tim nodded and leaned heavily on Alfred as he got out of the car, leaving his crutches behind. Only the thought of soon being able to crawl into a fresh, clean bed and sleep off whatever affliction had a hold of him kept him from simply giving up and passing out where he stood.

“I assume you haven’t any interest in food at the moment,” Alfred asked, and Tim shook his head, clenching his teeth when it made his headache spike. The old butler clicked his tongue, “I’ll get you some medicine and some crackers just before we get you settled into bed.”

Even the thought of crackers made Tim’s stomach twitch, but he’d try and eat something, if only to put Alfred’s mind at ease. As they made their way through the house, Tim became aware of a presence stalking them and tensed.

“Don’t you look terrible,” Damian sneered, walking along beside Tim and Alfred, “I had no idea your health was so delicate that a little swim could upset you so much.”

“Go back to the hole you crawled out of, demon spawn,” Tim snarled, too sick to think of being polite in front of Alfred.

“Enough, both of you,” Alfred said sharply, “Master Timothy is ill, Master Damian, so the last thing he needs is you antagonizing him.”

Damian scoffed, clearly annoyed at being thwarted so quickly, but Tim didn’t care that much. He paid the little brat no attention while Alfred took him to his old room.

It was almost a little strange to be back in his old room—the last time he’d been here, he’d been packing to leave to prove that Bruce wasn't dead. It was a little surreal to be back, after what felt like a lifetime, and seeing things were exactly the same as when he’d left them.

Alfred sat Tim down on a chair and passed him some pyjamas from his dresser, “You get changed while I run to fetch you some crackers and medicine,” he instructed.

Tim nodded and began to strip out of his suit. It took more concentration than he thought it would and he had to stop for another coughing fit in the middle of getting his pyjama pants on. Thankfully he managed to be decent by the time Alfred returned.

Alfred set a tray containing a glass of water, some crackers, and various bottles of pills down on the nightstand, “These should curb the coughing and the fever,” he said, passing Tim a few pills and the glass of water.

Tim swallowed the pills dutifully, and even managed to eat a few crackers before the temptation of sleep became too much for him to resist and he flopped down onto the bed. Alfred clicked his tongue, but helped situate Tim under the blankets so he would be warm.

“There we are,” Alfred said, fluffing the blankets a little, “Get some rest my boy. I’ll make sure there’s something for you to eat when you wake up.”

Tim hummed noncommittally, already falling asleep. The last thing he was conscious of was a hand running gently through his sweat-matted hair before he gratefully plunged into the blackness of sleep.

* * *

 

Though it had been several months since Bruce had returned to Gotham, Dick was still living at the Manor. He kept planning to move out into his own place in the city (he had the place picked out and everything), but he kept dragging his feet on moving out. He told himself that he was just too busy with Batman Inc. and navigating having Bruce back and being Nightwing again, but if Dick was being honest with himself, he was staying for Damian.

Damian was obnoxious, annoying, violent, and had a far too superior attitude for his own good, this was all true, but he was also only a child, not even twelve years old yet. Dick had done his best to be patient with Damian, to instill better behaviours and better values in the boy, but sometimes it had worn him down to the point where he wanted to throttle the little brat until he saw sense. Bruce was an incredibly patient man, but Dick knew his brand of harsh punishment and strong words would clash badly with Damian’s bull-headedness when they would eventually come to disagreements. So Dick stayed behind to act as a buffer between Bruce and Damian when they fought, which thankfully wasn't often anymore. Damian still came to Dick for advice and comfort (not that Damian would admit to needing something like comfort and validation, stubborn brat), which Dick could tell Bruce was a little jealous of, but the two of them had since gotten used to each other as partners.

_ If only they could get used to each other as father and son _ , Dick lamented. That was something Bruce and Damian had to figure out for themselves though, so Dick had to stop himself from intervening. It was tempting to micromanage, but Dick knew it would only make things worse in the long run.

Hoping to settle his mind with something to eat, Dick wandered into the kitchen where Alfred was standing at the stove, fussing over a pot of something that smelled delicious, “Smells good Alfred. Supper?” he asked, crossing to the fridge to get some fruit.

“Our supper tonight will be pulled pork,” Alfred said, “This is chicken soup for Master Timothy. He’s taken quite ill today.”

“Yeah he texted me earlier,” Dick said, taking a clementine out of the fruit drawer and shutting the fridge. He leaned against the counter and started peeling, “He fell in the river last night. He’s got a cold?”

Alfred frowned, “A flu,” he said, “It’s come on rather strong. I believe he’s been too stressed and it’s affecting his immune system.”

“Right,” Dick said, popping a wedge of clementine into his mouth and trying not to feel guilty. He was still on rocky ground with Tim, and he knew it was mostly his fault, but he hadn’t taken the time to mend things between them like he should have. He’d tried to give Tim space, to let him be mad at Dick for a while and get it out of his system, but Dick was starting to think reaching out would be a better idea.

With another little wave of guilt, Dick realized that this might be a good opportunity to do so, with Tim at the Manor and not really able to skulk off and ignore Dick, “Maybe I’ll go up and see him,” he mused aloud.

“You may take him his supper, but I don't think Master Timothy will be able to take much excitement,” Alfred said, guessing Dick’s intentions, “As I said, he’s quite ill.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, “Is it that bad?” he asked, “He was fine yesterday and he only fell in the river just last night. He doesn’t usually get sick so fast.”

Alfred pressed his lips together, “He’s quite sick,” he said, “Honestly I’m worried he’s coming down with pneumonia.”

Dick sucked in a breath through his teeth, “Yikes,” he said, “He’s been working himself too hard.”

“Agreed,” Alfred said, checking the soup again. Deeming it to be finished, Alfred set about ladling some into a bowl while Dick prepared a tray so he could carry it upstairs to Tim.

Once the food and utensils and various medicine bottles had been laid out on the tray, Dick picked it up and started his way up to Tim’s room. Hopefully Tim was awake enough that he could have something to eat, even if it was only a few bites of soup.

“Tim?” Dick called through the door, balancing the tray against his hip and knocking twice, “You awake in there Timmy?”

There was a shuffling noise from behind the door and then a fit of hacking coughs. Dick winced at the sound and opened the door, “Hey Tim, Alfred made soup,” he said, making his way inside.

Tim looked worse than he sounded, and Dick felt the colour drain from his own face when he was how much Tim was struggling to even sit up, “Lie back down kiddo,” Dick said, coming to the edge of the bed and setting the tray on the nightstand, “I’ll help.”

“Thanks,” Tim rasped as Dick helped him sit up. He had to lean back against the headboard in order to stay upright, and Dick propped a pillow behind his head so he’d be more comfortable, “I still blame you, jinxer.”

Dick smiled, relieved that Tim at least felt well enough to crack jokes, “Sorry, I’ll keep my big mouth shut next time then,” he said.

Tim chuckled, “That’ll be a first.”

Dick rolled his eyes, “See if I help you eat your soup, brat.”

“I can feed myself,” Tim said, even as he fell into another coughing fit.

Dick clenched his teeth and passed Tim a tissue to cough up into, “Yeah, I wouldn't trust you with a cookie right now, much less a bowl of boiling hot soup. I’ll feed you.”

Tim grumbled, “I’m not even that hungry,” he said.

“Yeah, because you're sick,” Dick pointed out, taking up the bowl of soup and the spoon. He scooped up some broth and vegetables, blowing on it to cool it down, “Now come on, say ‘ah’ for big brother.”

Tim glared at him, “You’re such an asshole,” he said, but he obligingly opened his mouth.

“So I’ve been told,” Dick said, proceeding to feed Tim. They were quiet for a while, Dick sensing that Tim needed to concentrate on eating and wasn’t really in the mood to talk.

Tim had maybe eaten a third of the soup when he finally turned his head, “I don’t think I can eat any more,” he said.

“Three more bites,” Dick tried to negotiate, “Can you manage that?”

Tim gave him a withering look, though he opened his mouth to accept the spoon. After two more bites, he shook his head, “Seriously, if I eat more I think I’ll barf.”

“Alright,” Dick said, setting the bowl down, “There’s some more medicine for you as well. You can handle that right?”

Tim nodded, though his eyes were starting to slip closed, “Can you get me another blanket?” he asked, “M’ cold.”

Dick watched a bead of sweat run from Tim’s temple down to his cheek, “Yeah sure, just a minute,” he said, passing Tim a few pills and some water, “Take these and I’ll be right back.”

Tim said nothing and shoved the pills in his mouth and gulped them down with the water, his hands shaking as he did so. Dick grabbed the water before Tim could spill it all over the bedsheets and set it down. He helped Tim settle back into the bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. In the time it took for Dick to fetch another blanket from Tim’s closet (though it took Dick a few minutes to figure out what Tim’s system was and where he kept the extra blanket), Tim fell asleep.

Dick frowned at his sleeping brother, spreading the blanket over him and wishing they’d been able to talk more. Hopefully Tim recovered quickly and they’d be able to have their talk soon. He hated leaving things so vague between them; Dick knew he’d made the right choice when he’d chosen Damian to be his Robin, but he wished things had gone better when he’d told Tim. With everything that had been happening at the time, Dick hadn’t been thinking properly and things had gotten jumbled. He’d have to make it up to Tim somehow, though they’d probably have to talk things out first.

With a sigh, Dick left Tim’s room, taking the tray with him. The soup had cooled by now, but Alfred would probably put it in the fridge for later. Dick let out another sigh and made his way to the kitchen.

“Grayson,” Damian appeared next to Dick, scaring the shit out of him, “Pennyworth says supper is ready.”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Dick said, smiling at Damian when he realized the boy was following him through the hallways, “How was your day?”

“It was fine,” Damian said, “I trained mostly.”

“Oh yeah? Watch any TV?” Dick asked. It must have been boring to be alone in this big house with nothing to do all day. Dick had been out for most of the day, so they hadn’t hung out (Dick was trying to get Damian interested in things like TV and video games and normal eleven-year-old things, but it was going very slowly).

“No,” Damian said. He eyed the tray in Dick’s hands, “Drake is sick.”

Dick bit down a sigh, “Yes, he is. Please don't bug him,” he said, “I know you're still mad about the list thing, but he’s too sick to get into a fight right now.”

Damian scoffed, “If he’s too ill to fight back, that’s his problem,” he said, “Not that I would need to take advantage of his being incapacitated to finish him off. Perhaps I’ll be lucky and the illness will finish him off for me.”

“That’s enough Damian,” Dick snapped. He wasn’t usually so harsh with Damian, but seeing Tim so sick made him a little nervous, “Just leave Tim alone. I mean it.”

There was a hint of betrayal in Damian’s eyes—he wasn't used to Dick reprimanding him so sternly, “Fine,” he huffed, stalking off, “Drake will be safe until he recovers from his sickness. After that, he should prepare himself.”

“I’ll pass that along,” Dick said, wishing he hadn’t snapped.

Damian stomped off without him, leaving him to make the last leg of the journey to the kitchen alone. Damian, for all his bluster, was a very sensitive child, and even small slights could spiral him into a funk for days. Dick let out another sigh and made a mental note to say sorry later. Another in the long list of apologies he needed to make.

* * *

 

Bruce ended up staying late at WE, helping Tam with the projects that she and Tim were supposed to do. He was surprised Tim had taken on so much work, though he probably shouldn’t have been. Tim took after Bruce when it came to delegating—he hated to pass off work that he could do himself—and the bad habit had only gotten worse in the last year. Tim was strong, but there was only so much he could do out of sheer stubbornness alone. Bruce resolved to pay a little more attention to Tim once he was feeling better, which would hopefully temper him a little when it came to working too hard.

The house was quiet when Bruce finally returned, which made him pause. Since Bruce came back, the Manor had been in a perpetual state of chaos, and silence became more suspicious than noise. He’d have blamed Dick, but even when Dick was a child and running around the Manor like a tiny hyperactive elephant he hadn’t produced so much noise. Now it seemed like there was always something happening at home, something getting broken or someone fighting with someone else. Bruce wasn't sure if he enjoyed knowing that the house was brimming with life, or if he just wanted some peace and quiet.

“Alfred?” he called, hanging his coat up.

Alfred stepped into the foyer, “My apologies sir, I was preparing to go and check on Master Timothy.”

“How’s he been doing?” Bruce asked, hanging up his coat and scarf.

“Not good I’m afraid,” Alfred said, “He’s been asleep most of the day and only woke to eat a pittance of soup before falling back to sleep.”

Bruce gave a frustrated sigh, “I’ll come up with you,” he said, “Has he ever been this sick before?”

“When he had the Apocalypse Virus, I think,” Alfred said with a grimace, one that Bruce matched. Neither of them wanted to think of any time one of the children nearly died.

Bruce finished stowing his outerwear and followed Alfred up to Tim’s room. The sense of unease in the pit of Bruce’s stomach hadn’t abated throughout the day, and he’d been constantly anxious about Tim’s condition throughout the day. He’d been distracted enough that even Lucius had commented on it.

“He’s a kid Bruce,” Lucius had said, “Kids get sick sometimes. He’ll be fine.”

Bruce had tried to take Lucius’s words to heart, but he couldn't help but feeling worried about Tim. Luckily he was good at compartmentalizing and he’d managed to get his work done in a timely manner.

“Master Timothy?” Alfred called through the door, “Are you awake?”

There was the sound of rustling sheets and a croaky, “Come in.” Alfred opened the door and the two men entered the room, making their way to the bed where Tim lay.

Tim looked even worse than he had that afternoon, despite all the rest he’d been getting. He smiled weakly up at them, “Hey,” he said, his breaths short and shallow, “You’re home early.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, “I’m home late Tim,” he said.

Tim furrowed his brow and glanced at the clock, “Shit, guess I slept for a long time.”

“As you should, Master Timothy,” Alfred said, putting his bag of medical supplies on the edge of the bed, “Can you sit up a little for me? I want to get a proper listen to your lungs.”

Tim nodded and tried to sit up; after a moment’s struggle, Bruce stepped in to help him, grasping his arm and gently getting him upright. Tim was shivering violently, but he was burning to the touch and damp with sweat. Alfred stuck a thermometer in his mouth and set about warming the end of a stethoscope so he could listen to Tim’s lungs. He put his hand under Tim’s shirt and listened to him struggle to breath, frown deepening.

“As I thought,” Alfred said with a sigh, “Pneumonia.”

“So quickly?” Bruce asked, “Doesn’t it usually take a few days?”

“Usually,” Alfred said, taking the thermometer and looking at it, clicking his tongue, “A fever of a hundred and two. Have you been feeling unwell these passed few days, Master Timothy?”

Tim shook his head, “No, not really. I—” He began to cough again, quickly grabbing a tissue to hack up into. Bruce rubbed his back, wishing there was something else he could do to help. His chest clenched when Tim pulled the tissue away and he could see bright red spots of blood amongst the yellowish phlegm.

“Oh, well that’s no good,” Tim said, slurring a little. Bruce and Alfred exchanged a look, and the sick sense of dread in Bruce’s stomach intensified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim you need to sTAHP.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second half! I had the whole thing written out before hand, I just needed time to edit. Special thanks to my roommate Ketki for her medical knowledge.

Damian was in the cave training out his frustrations when he noticed Bruce come in and make his way to the medical bay, “Father, come spar with me,” he requested.

“Not now Damian,” Bruce said, sounding distracted, “Can you help me get the ventilator into the elevator?”

Damian clenched his teeth, but put down his katana and followed his father to the medical bay, “Why do you need to take the ventilator upstairs?”

“Tim has pneumonia,” Bruce said, reaching down to unhook the machine from where it was plugged in, “We’re bringing the ventilator upstairs as a precaution.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, “Pneumonia takes longer than one day to set in. I did not know Drake had such a weak constitution,” he said, helping wheel the ventilator out of the medical bay.

“He doesn’t usually,” Bruce said, “He’s been under a lot of stress, and it may have affected him.”

“Tt, sounds like that’s his own fault,” Damian scoffed.

Bruce made a disapproving noise, “None of us have exactly helped,” he said.

Damian tried not to take that as a slight. He knew he and Drake did not have a good relationship and it was putting a strain on the people around them, but it wasn’t his fault. Drake should have known that he had no place in the family; Damian was the rightful heir. Damian had already taken his place as Robin, and his motions to depose Drake’s position at WE couldn't go ignored forever. Drake was his enemy, and they both knew that.

What made Damian really angry was that no matter what he did, Drake seemed to be a step ahead. He’d proven that Bruce was alive when everyone else had just accepted his death, he’d been drawn into a battle of strategy and wits with Damian’s grandfather and come out not only alive but also the unequivocal victor. He’d not only adapted to not being Robin, but thrived as Red Robin. Drake hadn’t crumbled the way Damian had planned, and now he was stuck with a ‘brother’ he had no want of. What was worse was the way his father and Grayson and Pennyworth all expected him to learn to  _ like _ Drake, or at least tolerate him. The slights Damian could deal with (violently or subtly, given time), but the push to consider Drake his  _ brother _ was something that rankled with him.

Still, Damian could be patient, and wait for the opportunity to oust Drake permanently from the ranks of the family. It would have been much easier to kill him, but Damian was trying his best not to fall back on his assassin training out of respect for his father. It would take longer, but the end result would be all the more satisfying.

Damian and Bruce wheeled the ventilator into the elevator. Damian wondered if he could somehow sabotage the machine without his father noticing, but decided against trying (for now). Besides, he’d promised Grayson that he wouldn’t try anything to hurt Drake until he was recovered.

They reached the correct floor and wheeled the ventilator out into the hall towards Drake’s room. Damian had been in it a few times, once when he’d done a sweep of the entire house, looking for weak spots, and later placing bugs in the room to spy on Drake.

Craning his head around Bruce’s shoulders to get a better look at Drake as they entered the room, Damian was a little startled to see how deteriorated Drake’s condition had become since that afternoon. His chest heaved rapidly as he tried to breathe around whatever fluid was in his lungs, and he was drenched in sweat (Alfred was currently helping him into a fresh set of pyjamas). He was paler than Damian had ever seen him and his lips were starting to turn bluish.

“Set up the machine,” Alfred instructed them as they came in, “I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Drake groaned and flopped back onto his bed, coughing violently, “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Bruce leaned over the bed and petted Tim’s sweaty hair, “It’s not your fault,” he said.

Damian clenched his teeth as he helped Alfred plug the machine into the outlet near the bed. He refused to call the hot, swirling emotion in his stomach jealousy over Drake. Damian was the legitimate son, the blood son of Batman, and Drake could  _ never _ claim that. He had no reason to be jealous of Drake.

Once the ventilator was hooked up, Alfred fitted the mask over Tim’s face and switched the machine on, “Honestly, you children all need a proper lesson in self-care,” he said as he adjusted the straps.

Tim reached up to fiddle with the mask, only to have his hands batted away by Alfred, “Not like this is my fault,” he grumbled, “Blame the Hook.”

“Of course, silly me,” Alfred said dryly, readjusting the mask, “Don’t play with the mask. I’m going to take a blood sample, alright?”

Tim nodded, and Damian could see that his eyes were glassy and a little teary (or maybe he’d sweated into his eyes). The skin of the sockets around them were dark and bruised, giving them a gaunt, sunken look. Damian thought back to his earlier comment about the illness killing Drake before he could do it and wondered if he was far off from the mark.

Bruce and Alfred seemed to have forgotten Damian was there, which annoyed him, but he considered using it to his advantage and placing bugs in Drake’s room (he kept finding them somehow, which didn't make any sense because Drake was barely even  _ at _ the Manor). Deciding to take the opening, Damian slipped a hand into his pocket and grabbed one of the bugs he kept on his person at all times. He activated it and was about to place it when a bottle of pills sailed past his head. Damian looked up to see Tim glaring at him.

“Stop putting bugs in my room you fucking gremlin,” Tim hissed even as he swayed.

Bruce sighed and stood up, holding out his hand to Damian. Damian bristled and was about to proclaim his innocence, but Bruce stopped him with a look. Grumbling, Damian placed the bug in Bruce’s outstretched palm, who took it and crushed it between his fingers.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he said, clearly annoyed with Damian. Damian glared around Bruce’s body at Tim, who was already settling back into the bed. Alfred caught his eye and Damian hated that a small part of him felt ashamed, scrutinized as he was under the elderly man’s gaze.

With a huff, Damian marched out of the room, deliberately not sparing Drake another glance, despite the wretchedness of the coughing that followed Damian out of the room. He refused to feel sorry for Drake either.

Bruce found him a half an hour later at the training mats again, beating the stuffing out of a training dummy. Damian didn’t turn to look at his father, knowing he was going to get another ‘stern talking to’ no matter what he did.

With a sigh, Bruce launched into his lecture, “Why do you feel the need to antagonize Tim?”

Damian didn’t answer, landing a few more precise, rapid-fire hits to the dummy. His rivalry with Tim was known to Bruce, so he shouldn’t have been so surprised. Damian wanted Tim gone and he wasn’t above using espionage to do it, why was his father upset?

“Damian,” Bruce said firmly, “Stop and look at me,” he ordered.

Damian punched the dummy three more times before he stopped.  _ Take a deep breath and count to ten _ , Grayson told him,  _ If you’re angry and you need to calm down, take a deep breath and count to ten _ . Damian found this an absurd thing to do, but he still did it. It would be awhile before he admitted that it worked. He turned to look up at his father, still remaining tight lipped.

Bruce stared down at him, eyes calculating and stoney, impossible to read. Damian had been trained all his life to look death in the face and spit in it, and he wouldn't cower under anyone’s gaze, not even the Dark Knight himself.

“I want you to leave Tim alone Damian,” Bruce said, “This rivalry has gone on long enough, and I’ve been plenty tolerant. Either reconcile your differences, or leave him alone.”

Damian bristled, “He’s the one who—!”

Bruce put up a hand to stop him, “Enough!” he commanded, “You keep saying you don’t want to be treated like a child, so stop acting like one. Leave. Tim. Alone.”

_ Take a deep breath _ , Damian sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity.  _ One, two three, four, _ he exhaled, though his chest still felt restricted, like he was the one with pneumonia,  _ five six seven, eight, nine, ten _ .

Damian turned away from his father, “I’d like to get back to my training now,” he said, voice clipped as he restrained himself from yelling, from cursing at his father until his voice went hoarse.

Bruce watched Damian for a moment, “Alright. Remember to rest before patrol tonight,” he said, before leaving Damian to his own devices and heading back upstairs.

_ Back to Drake’s bedside _ , Damian thought, sneering a little. He turned back to the dummy and landed a solid kick to the dummy’s head, right where it would shatter the jaw of a human.  _ Crush someone’s jaw hard enough and the target will begin to hemorrhage and their airway will fill with blood, killing them in minutes _ , his mind supplied. Damian gritted his teeth and did not imagine Drake’s form superimposed upon the dummy.

* * *

 

The next few days saw no improvement in Tim, despite the efforts of Alfred and Bruce. Tim drifted in and out of consciousness, though his waking state was increasingly disoriented and hazy. Alfred tried to change his medications around and did a few more tests, but Tim wasn’t getting any better. He seemed to be getting worse.

“I just don’t understand,” Alfred muttered to himself, going over Tim’s test results again, “He’s never been so easily ill before. Not this quickly.”

“It can’t just be stress,” Bruce said, “There has to be something else making him sick.”

“There’s nothing in his bloodwork,” Alfred said, rubbing his eyes, “No poison, no virus, nothing that would dramatically affect his immune system this way.”

Bruce sighed and ran hand through his hair, disheveling it further. He hadn’t gone to bed after coming back from patrol, too anxious to sleep even if he tried. He’d called Lucius at work to tell him he wouldn't be coming in that day or for the foreseeable future (Lucius had been annoyed at first, but then sympathetic when he was told how serious Tim’s condition was). Bruce had also cancelled any other ‘work’ he had going on; a few interviews and a couple of appearances at charities, which had pissed off a few people, but no one would say anything to Bruce Wayne’s face.

There was a knock at the door and Dick poked his head in, “Anything?” he asked. He’d actually gotten some sleep last night, but he still looked a little wan, as nervous as Bruce was about Tim.

“He’s not worse,” Alfred said with a sigh, “I’m considering having him moved to the medical bay, if only to keep a closer eye on him.”

“That might be best,” Bruce said, “It’s a better idea than hauling all of the monitoring equipment upstairs.”

“Right,” Dick said, though the idea that this was serious enough to warrant Tim being put into the medical bay made his stomach twist nervously, “It’s probably for the best.”

“I’ll go down and begin preparing,” Alfred said, his face pinched. He vacated the room and went downstairs, leave Bruce and Dick to deal with bringing Tim.

“We’re going to have to unplug the ventilator to bring it back downstairs,” Bruce said, frowning. He didn't want to leave Tim’s fragile lungs to work on their own if he could help it.

“This is the backup, right? Why don’t we leave this one here and use the other one downstairs?” Dick suggested, “That way once Tim is recovered enough he can come back to his room and still get oxygen and we don't have to keep carting around the machine.”

Bruce nodded, “Sounds fine,” he said, though nothing about this was fine.

Plan in mind, the two of them set about getting ready to transport Tim downstairs. Bruce decided to get a ventilation bag set up to manually help Tim breath while they got him downstairs, though Dick was hoping to wake Tim up a little to get him to help.

“Timmy?” Dick called, leaning over the bed a little, “Timmy, are you there? Anyone home?”

Tim let out a soft groan and his eyebrows pinched together. Dick held his breath, hoping that Tim would come out of his fever coma a little, but Tim relaxed again and went back to sleep. Dick sighed and pulled back.

“It’s probably better that he rest,” he said, though the unhappiness in his voice was clear, “I just hope he doesn’t freak out when he wakes up in the med bay.”

“He’ll be alright,” Bruce said. He got the ventilator bag assembled and came around to Tim’s other side. Dick pulled the oxygen mask away and Bruce fitten the mask of the bag over his nose and mouth, squeezing rhymiclly.

After a little maneuvering, they got Tim—wrapped securely in warm blankets so he wouldn't get a chill—into Bruce’s arms so he could carry him down to the medical bay. Dick took over the ventilator bag, which made moving through the hallways a little awkward, but at least they were moving.

They just got into the elevator when Tim groaned again and cracked his eyes open, looking around blearily, “Hey kiddo,” Bruce said softly, “We’re taking you to the med bay to monitor you better.”

Tim’s brows furrowed in confusion, “Did I get hit?” he asked, voice slurring so badly Dick took a second to decipher what he was saying.

“No, you’re sick Tim,” Bruce explained, “Do you remember?”

Tim hummed, snuggling closer to Bruce, “M’chest hurts,” he said, “Feels tight. I get stabbed again?”

“No Tim, you’re sick,” Bruce said with a frown. This was the second time Tim brought up being stabbed in the last couple of days.

“Oh,” Tim said, blinking slowly. His eyes rolled around he saw Dick above him. He smiled in an almost drunken manner, “Hey Dick,” he said.

“Hey little brother,” Dick said, smiling back through his worry, “You’ve been worrying us.”

“Have I?” Tim asked, “Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Dick said, “You just focus on getting better, okay?”

“Better?” Tim asked, looking confused again, like he was trying to think hard about something, “Did I get hurt?”

Bruce and Dick exchanged a glance, “No Tim, you’re sick,” Dick said.

“Oh,” Tim said, eyes closing for a second, “My bad.”

Dick laughed despite himself, “It’s fine. Just rest.”

“M’kay,” Tim mumbled, then promptly fell back asleep. Bruce let out a breath, not sure if he was relieved or even more worried.

They got to the cave where Alfred had co-opted Damian into helping him set up the bed where they were going to put Tim. Damian didn’t look happy about it, but at least he wasn’t complaining (it was hard to complain at Alfred). Bruce got Tim situated on the cot and they set about hooking him up to various machines to monitor him and distribute medicines and fluids. Bruce fitted the mask of the ventilator over Tim’s nose and mouth and hoped that they wouldn't have to switch to intubation.

Once everything was set up, Bruce sat down in one of the plastic chairs they kept down in the med bay for this specific purpose. Alfred breathed out a sigh and rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Dick paced around anxiously, unable to sit still. Damian cast one last glance at Tim before leaving the med bay, probably to train.

“I need to start preparing dinner,” Alfred said, sounding exhausted, “The alarms should let us know if anything goes wrong,” he said, glancing at Bruce pointedly before walking out and upstairs.

Bruce turned away, watching Tim for another minute before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Why don't you lie down for a bit? I’ll stay with him,” Dick said, smiling down at Bruce, trying to reassure him.

Bruce wanted to say no, to stay with Tim and be there for him the way he hadn’t been in a long time—longer than he cared to admit. However, he couldn't deny that his eyes felt like sandpaper and his whole body ached. The bruises and abrasions he’d accumulated from last night’s patrol weren’t so much screaming at him as they were passive-aggressively reminding him of their presence and Bruce’s age. With a sigh that turned into a groan, Bruce stood up from the chair he’d dragged into Tim’s room.

“I’ll be in my room. Come get me if anything happens, alright?” he said to Dick.

Dick nodded, “I’ll keep an eye on him, don't worry,” he said with a tired smile.

Bruce nodded; maybe because he was so tired and he couldn’t think better of it in time, he pulled Dick in for a hug. Dick returned in instantly and with no awkward stiffness, never one to look a gift hug in the mouth. Bruce squeezed him once before letting him go. He patted Dick on the back and left the room, ready to at least lie down for a little while.

Dick sat next to Tim in Bruce’s vacated chair, scooting a little closer so he could lean on the bed. Gently, he took Tim’s hand and gave it a squeeze, watching his little brother struggle to breathe. They were close to putting Tim on a breathing tube, to force his lungs to expand and exhale rather than rely on Tim to do it. The ventilator they were using was only a mask, and it relied on Tim to actually suck the oxygen in. Dick hated invasive ventilators, but he didn't know what else they could do?

With a sigh, Dick picked up the chart Alfred had left hanging over the end of the bed, eyes skimming over the medications and the test results. Tim had never been sickly; he could even be considered robust, having the benefits of a quality diet and medical treatment as a child, as well as exposure to various pathogens when he went out into the streets at night to tail Batman and Robin (that still amazed Dick. Not so much that Tim had done it, but that he’d never been caught). This sudden illness wasn't consistent with Tim’s medical history at all. What had changed?

Dick groaned and hung the chart back up, his free hand coming up to rub at his eyes. Maybe once they got Tim awake and coherent enough, they could ask him if he’d suffered anything that might have compromised his immune system while he’d been away looking for Bruce. He’d been completely fine physically when he left Gotham, but by the time Tim had returned, things had changed so much that it was hard to map all the differences in him compared to before, not only physically, but mentally as well.

The memory of Tim leaving Gotham brought up a fresh wave of guilt in Dick’s stomach. He didn't exactly regret making Damian his Robin, knowing how much the little boy had needed it, but he did regret how it had all gone down. Stepping back and looking at it from Tim’s perspective, it certainly looked like Dick had rejected Tim and tossed him out on his ass, and Dick understood why Tim was upset with him. It hadn’t been his intention to drive Tim away, but he hadn’t really given him much of a choice after taking Robin away from him, the only thing he had after losing his father, his friends, and then Bruce. Dick couldn't help but feel entirely responsible for everything that had happened to Tim in the last year, though he knew things weren’t entirely his fault.

With another deep sigh, Dick made himself as comfortable as he could on the edge of Tim’s bed, keeping Tim’s hand in his so that his little brother would know he was there for him, even if he was unconscious. Dick rested his head down on the mattress and let his mind wander, trying not to let himself get pulled into a spiral of self-loathing and guilt.

* * *

 

Dick woke from his doze violently as alarms blared around him. Bolting upright, Dick’s heart screeched to a halt as he realized that the alarms were blaring because of Tim. Red spots had appeared on Tim’s arms in the short time that Dick had closed his eyes, and Dick could see from the machines that Tim’s blood pressure had dropped.

With a shout, Dick launched himself up from his chair just as Bruce came barreling through the med bay doors, looking frantic, “What happened?”

“He’s gone into shock,” Dick said, not sure how he managed to get the words out around his panic.

Bruce scrambled to get the intubation ready while Dick dove for the saline drips. Alfred ran in just a few seconds later and immediately started helping Bruce. Dick’s heart pounded in his chest and throat and head, but his hands remained steady as he got Tim on the saline drips and stepped back to let Bruce and Alfred work. He saw out of the corner of his eye Damian enter the med bay, obviously curious about what was happening. Dick crossed the room to him in two strides and steered him out of the med bay.

Damian wiggled a little in Dick’s grip, “Grayson, what happened?” he asked.

“Tim,” Dick breathed, chest heaving a little like he’d just run across the city at full tilt, “He went into shock.” He dragged a hand through his hair, his whole body trembling from the adrenaline, “Gotta be septic shock. How though?”

“Grayson?” Damian called, and he sounded far away somehow, though Dick still had a grip on his shoulder, “Do you need to sit down?”

Dick didn't answer, but went along willingly when Damian dragged him over to the lab bench that was close by and forced him to sit. Damian took a step back, but Dick reached for him, shaking and trying to take deep breaths. He pulled Damian close and hugged him tightly; normally he wouldn't do this to Damian, he’d let the boy come to him, but he’d just watched one of his brothers go into a serious shock, and he was feeling a little fragile. He needed the contact, and Damian was close, and not wiggling away for once. He seemed to understand that Dick was really upset and needed something, which was progress on his side. The Damian of a year ago would never have tolerated a hug like this, even if he understood that someone was upset.

Dick couldn’t keep track of time in the state he was in, but it felt like it had been some time before Bruce came out of the med bay, looking like he’d lost about five years off his life. He made his way over to Dick and flopped down on the bench next to him.

“He’s stable,” he said, sounding exhausted, “He nearly crashed, but we got him back.” Bruce put his face in his hands and took three deep breaths, “He’s stable, he’s going to be fine.” It sounded like a mantra, like Bruce needed it to be true more than it actually was.

“What happened?” Dick asked, finally releasing Damian, who stepped back, but didn’t leave.

“Septicemia, a blood infection,” Bruce said, “It’s not sepsis, not yet, but we have to watch him.”

Dick sucked in a breath. Septicemia could very easily lead to sepsis, which could lead to organ failure which could lead to death. Tim was in some serious trouble.

“How did this happen? We’ve been  _ treating _ him, how did it get worse?” Dick said, feeling his heart pick up again, “Septicemia is something that happens when an infection goes  _ untreated _ . How did Tim get like this?”

“I don't know,” Bruce said, and Dick could see his hands shaking, “I don't know what happened.”

An alarm sounded and Dick nearly had a heart attack before he realized that it was the fire alarm, “Alfred must have left the stove one or something,” he said, “I’ll go get it.”

Bruce nodded and relaxed slightly from where he’d tensed to dash back to Tim’s side, where Alfred was running tests and administering more aid. Dick stood on slightly wobbly legs, stopping once to put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder and squeeze before heading into the house.

Dinner, which looked like it had once been a stir fry, was smoking on the stove, about to catch fire any second. Dick covered the blackened mess and removed it from the heat, switching off the stove as he went. The spatula was on the floor in the middle of a smear on the linoleum from where Alfred had either dropped it or knocked it over. Dick cleaned up the smear and put the spatula in the dishwasher. He considered calling in some take-out, but he wasn't that hungry anyway.

Letting out a long sigh, Dick sat down on the floor, his back against the counter. Exhaustion seeped out of every inch of his being; Dick could feel his throat closing as a sickly tangle of emotions knotted up his stomach. Taking a few deep breaths, Dick tried not to let himself become overwhelmed, realizing he was failing as tears stung his eyes. Burying his face in his hands, Dick let out a sob and hoped no one came to check on dinner.

* * *

 

The next two days, everyone teetered on eggshells, trying not to think about how close they were to losing another family member. Tim’s condition didn't worsen, but it didn’t improve either. The criminal element of Gotham had taken notice of Red Robin’s absence, but they had also noticed Batman’s increased brutality when he took to the streets. The smart criminals made themselves scarce, and especially stayed out of Red Robin’s territory, knowing it would only land them in the emergency room instead of a jail cell.

Stephanie showed up the day after Tim went into shock, demanding to know why she hadn’t been told Tim was so sick and spitting fire at anyone who came close enough to incurring her wrath. Damian wisely kept out of her way, though he would die before he admitted to being scared of the blonde Batgirl.

They got word from Cassandra that she was on her way to Gotham from Hong Kong, worried for her brother. She had several things to take care of first, but she assured them that she would be on her way as soon as possible. If not for the circumstances, Damian might have been pleased for the chance to spar against the famed Black Bat.

Overall, Damian wasn't sure how to feel about the situation. He didn't care about Drake, not at all, but he couldn't help but be affected by the melancholic atmosphere that permeated the manor. Everyone was quiet and anxious, trying not to think of worse-case-scenarios and what-ifs. Damian didn’t care if Drake lived or died, certainly not, but he hated to see Dick looking so sad. His eyes were dull and listless, and he had none of his usual exuberance. Bruce was tense and short with everyone, even Alfred, and spent most of his time at Drake’s bedside, keeping watch over him. Alfred went about his days as usual, cooking, cleaning, and so forth, but he seemed like he was adrift somehow. Stephanie flitted about the manor nervously, unable to sit still for longer than a few minutes, moving from Drake’s bedside to the kitchen with Alfred to the den to sit next to Dick and then back to Drake’s bedside again. Damian felt like he was going to go insane.

It was getting close to patrol time, and Bruce had not left the medical bay. Damian tried to keep patient, but as the minutes ticked by, he became more and more agitated. With a huff, he finally stomped through the med bay doors, ready to give his father a piece of his mind.

Damian found Bruce fitfully asleep, resting his head on the cot near Drake’s waist, one hand clutching Drake’s limp one. Grumbling, Damian moved closer to see if he would wake up. As he did, he looked over Drake’s prone body.

Drake had always been pale, ever since Damian had known him, but this was taking it to an extreme. They’d had to remove much of Drake’s clothing, sweat-soaked as it was, and Damian could see the scarred skin over Drake’s chest as he struggled to breathe. His face was gaunt and sallow, as he’d lost a fair amount of weight in just the last few days. The machine beeped around him, and the tubes snaking out of his nose and mouth looked mean and unpleasant.

_ He could actually die _ , Damian thought suddenly,  _ This could actually kill him _ .

Unbidden, a wash of emotion came upon Damian, though he tried desperately to squash it down. Tim Drake was his enemy, the concept of his death should have elated Damian, but somehow he could not bring himself to enjoy the idea. Stepping closer, Damian thought about what would happen if Tim did die.

_ Grayson and Father would be sad _ , Damian thought,  _ And so would Alfred and Fatgirl _ . He did not think he wanted everyone in his life to be sad, especially not the kind of sadness a death would bring. That was surely the reason that he felt no joy at the prospect of Tim’s death.

Up close, Damian could see the scarred skin more clearly. The pallor of Tim’s skin made the scars nearly purplish under the harsh lights of the medical bay. Damian could see slashes and stabs, bullet wounds and compound breaks. He could even see which ones were more recent, and which ones had faded with time. One particularly nasty scar looked like it had occurred in the last six months, blooming over Tim’s abdomen. It was a stab wound of some kind, and had probably gone deep, deep enough even to seriously wound Tim. Damian leaned closer and tried to see where the stitches had been, for surely something like that would need them. Strangely, when Damian managed to pick out the stitch line, he could see that it had been made wider before it had been sewn shut.

Frowning, Damian leaned closer, trying to figure out why a wound would need to be made larger before it could be closed. Perhaps something had been left lodged in the wound and needed to be removed? The wound was a deep stab, maybe an organ had needed operation? The location of the wound was high up on Tim’s abdomen, but angled in such a way as to miss the stomach and the lungs. What organ could be compromised by a wound like this.

From the other side of the cot, Bruce groaned and sat up, “Damian?” he questioned blearily, “What time is it?”

“Time for patrol,” Damian said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. He turned back to the scar on Tim’s torso, “Father did you see this?”

Bruce furrowed his brow and got up o come around to the other side of the cot. Damian pointed out the scar and watched the frown on his father’s face deepen. He gently traced the scar with a fingertip, trying to figure out the mystery.

“Damian, call Alfred down here,” Bruce said after a moment, standing up and heading over to one of the other machines. Damian complied and Alfred soon joined them in the medical bay.

“Has something happened?” Alfred asked, and though his voice didn't shake, Damian could see the worry in his eyes.

“Help me with the ultrasound machine,” Bruce instructed, pulling the machine over towards Tim. Alfred raised an eyebrow and did as he was asked, while Damian fell back to the corner of the room.

The next few minutes were filled with a tense silence as the machine warmed up and Bruce placed the wand over the scar. The monitor lit up, but Damian hadn’t been trained in how to read it, so he had no idea what was going on.

“Son of a bitch,” Bruce cursed, fixated on one spot.

“Good lord, no wonder,” Alfred said in disbelief. He quickly darted across the room and started pulling various things from the shelves.

“What?” Damian asked, annoyed at being left out of the loop, “What is it?”

* * *

 

“He lost his  _ spleen _ ?” Dick asked, shocked, “How?”

“I don't know,” Bruce said, “It looks like a traumatic stab wound that occurred around eight to six months ago.”

“When he was running across the world looking for you,” Steph said, grimacing, “Without any of us to help him.”

“Why didn't he tell us?” Dick asked aloud, though it sounded mostly rhetorical, “We should have known.”

“None of us have really spoken to Master Timothy that much since his return,” Alfred said, “I imagine that has something to do with it.”

Dick and Steph both had the good sense to look shamefaced, “It doesn’t matter now,” Bruce said, “The point is that now we can treat him properly.” He looked over everyone in the room, “And everyone is getting their vaccinations updated.”

“What for?” Damian huffed, crossing his arms. He hated needles; the memories of being out under time and time again as his body was altered at the behest of his mother had left a sour taste in his mouth at the thought of more needles.

“So none of us make Tim sick. The spleen accounts for a lot of the immune system, and it can take up to two  _ years _ for the body to compensate for the loss,” Dick explained, “We should have gotten our shots the minute he had it out.”

“Based on the basic rundown of the timeline Master Timothy gave us, the event occurred sometime when he was in Ra’s Al Ghul’s keep,” Alfred said, “I should think that man did not properly care for Master Timothy aside from keeping him alive short term,” he said, sounding as annoyed as Alfred ever got.

Bruce growled and vowed to throw Ra’s off a building the next time he saw him (internally, so he didn't upset Damian). He also promised to himself that he’d have a proper sit down with Tim and talk about everything that happened to the boy on his global journey.

“So now what?” Steph asked, “What do we do next?”

“Now,” Alfred said, sounding calmer and more sure than he’d been in days, “We treat Master Timothy accordingly, with the proper amount of antibiotics and medications in order to make up for his lost spleen. Hopefully, within the next few days, we’ll see improvement.”

It wasn’t a sure thing, but it was a lot better than what they’d been dealing with the last few days. With a tired shuffle, everyone began to move towards getting some sleep (patrol had been cancelled, much to Damian’s derision).

“Hey, Dami,” Dick called, motioning the younger boy over, “Thank you.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, “For what?”

“For figuring out what was wrong with Tim,” Dick said, drawing him into a tight hug, “You might have saved his life.”

Damian grumbled, “Oh  _ goodie _ .”

* * *

 

When Tim came to, it felt like a heavy fog was lifting from his whole body, like he’d been submerged in water for a long time. His chest felt tight, but there was no pain, only the floaty numb feeling that told him he was on the good drugs. The lights above him had been dimmed a little, but it still stung his eyes slightly. His throat felt rough and dry, and Tim guessed there’d been a tube down it at some point recently. Tim let out a groan, hoping someone was nearby to hear him.

“Tim?” Bruce’s voice came from somewhere beside him, “Are you awake?”

Tim coughed once, trying to clear his throat, “Unfortunately,” he croaked, “What kind of truck hit me?”

“Pneumonia,” Bruce answered coming into Tim’s view. He looked tired and frazzled, “Followed by a minivan called septicemia.”

“Fuck,” Tim groaned, squeezing his eyes shut, “No wonder I feel like I went a couple rounds with Bane.”

“It was pretty touch and go there for a while,” Bruce said, disappearing and reappearing with a cup of water and a straw. He pressed the button on the side of the cot and elevated Tim a little so he could take sips of water. Bruce sat down in the chair that had moved to the side of the cot; he frowned at Tim, “We nearly lost you.”

Tim tried to suck in a sharp breath, but his constricted chest wouldn’t let him, “Shit, really?” he asked, “That’s like the third time this year.”

Bruce’s frown deepened, “Tim, why didn’t you tell us about your spleen?” he asked.

Tim looked over at Bruce, then away, unable to stand Bruce’s ‘I’m-mad-but-mostly-really-worried-about-you’ face, “It kind of slipped my mind,” he said with a semi-shrug, “I meant to tell Alfred, but everything has been so crazy that I never found the time.”

“That was careless,” Bruce grumbled, “You could have died.”

Tim grinned a little, unable to help himself, “I forgot,” he said, “Whoopsie.”

Bruce looked like he was two seconds from getting up and bashing his head against the wall until his children started making sense (he’d be at it a long time), “Tim,” he said slowly, “This is a little bigger than ‘whoopsie’.”

Tim chuckled, though it morphed into a coughing fit halfway through (not as bad as it had been before, but it was still unpleasant), “Sorry,” he said, “I promise to let you know the next time I lose an organ.”

Bruce huffed out a breath, “I know you're being sarcastic, but thank you,” he said, “Now, you need to rest.” He reached over to fiddle with one of the medication drips that was running into Tim’s arm.

“Mm-hm,” Tim said, already starting to feel heavy, “How did you find out by the way?”

“Hm?” Bruce asked, reaching over and tucking the blanket around Tim a little more securely.

“About my spleen? Did you talk to Tam? Or Ra’s?” Tim asked, voice starting to slur.

“Ah, no,” Bruce said, smiling softly and petting Tim’s matted hair, “Damian figured it out. He saved your life.”

Tim narrowed his eyes incredulously, “What the fuck?” he said, the last words out of his mouth before he fell back into blissed unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian to the rescue! Kinda.


End file.
